Oh, Lordy,Lordy, Golly Gosh.
We really truly have done it.
With a few clicks there and a few deletes there.
Plus a few words not really meant for print.
We are printed in a book.
So when I am all tucked up in my Nursing Home.
I hope many years from now, I will be able to say.
Did I really live there, did I truly write all that stuff.
Will I remember all about it, or perhaps I will not.
But there will be a copy of "Gardenwhispering".
For anyone to see.
"Where for art there", No it's not Romeo I want.
Where for art there, garden shovel, I am sure I put you back.
Have you up and gone walk about, or done a shovel runner.
I am sure I put you back where all good shovels live.
But your whereabouts right now.
Has become quite unclear to me.
Am I losing the plot, or just my marbles. I'm sure I put you back.
Are you hanging out with the long lost secateurs.
Or perhaps just other stuff.
Is there such a thing as a Garden Lost Property Dept.,
If so, perhaps I need the whereabouts.
So I can go and visit.
Now really, truly, really, is the there a valid reason, why.
Why does it not want to rain on my garden.
Not those little drops and dribbles I am sent.
I want, big drenching drops, soaking in, big down pours.
Do I need Rain Dancers, to jump around and do their stuff.
If that is the case, please pop by, anytime will do.
Come clothed, half clothed or dressed in moonbeams.
Or even sunsparkles, in other words I don't care if you are all
Stark Naked, just as long as it rains,and rains and rains.
This garden needs a large drink.
Nothing Days, love them lots.
You know the days, the ones that aren't Sat, Sun, Mon. or even a
Thursday. Just a nothing day.
A day to do whatever, a real nothing much is happening day.
A don't need to use the brain day.
Play music day, drink tea day, read books day.
A spread manure day, a just a wander in the garden day.
A doesn't really matter day.
Just as long as they still happen, I will be a happy little gardener.
Truly, honestly, really.
I'm far from being with it, this texting stuff is nuts.
I still stick all my comma's in there, even the odd full stop.
Someone sent me ' lol', had to think on that.
Thought they were talking, garden stuff, all about their citrus.
Would you not have thought, lemon, oranges and limes.
Maybe, they were just chucking off at this old gardener.
Who is way behind the times.
But I am getting into the swing of it, getting right up there.
If I send to you. this text, grrrrrrr, nothing more needs to be said.
It is the texting word for "rabbits", they're doing in my head.
What is going on, am I really losing the plot.
Yes, I do the occassional "odd" thing, misplace,
blame others. You know the thing.
Now the garden is doing it to me, confusing me know end.
Look over here, I'm dressed for Autumn.
But just behind me, there is something flowering for Spring.
The calendar says it's Summer, and my sweaty brow tells me so.
But Winter has't shown her face, it is still to jolly hot.
How I yearn for some mist and fog.
But I get the other lot.
I am begging for forgiveness, grovelling you may say.
Is possibly quite right, but I am not quite on bended knee.
You may recall, the Spoilt Black Dog, was blamed for being
greedy. When the salami went missing, from under the said
christmas tree.
Alas Oh! No, I have found it, hidden in the cupboard.
Am I losing the plot, have I lost my marbles.
I have dutifully said I am sorry, many many times.
But he still looks at me, with those eyes as we wander in the garden.
How could you be so mean to even think that of me, he says
without muttering one single word.
So extra bones are on the shopping list.
Until I get forgiven.
